


ozymandius

by salt_rose



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dragon Age: Inquisition - Trespasser DLC, Dragon Age: Inquisition Spoilers, F/M, From the beginning, POV Solas (Dragon Age), Solas (Dragon Age) Spoilers, Spoilers, chapter 1 has spoilers, how I wish the game happened, leave my egg alone, seriously so many spoilers, they all have spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:21:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22994629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salt_rose/pseuds/salt_rose
Summary: "my name is ozymandias, king of kings;look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!nothing beside remains. round the decayof that colossal wreck, boundless and barethe lone and level sands stretch far away."-ozymandius, percy blysshe shelleyin which the story of the inquisition is told by solas, and a few details are changed. beware all ye who enter: spoilers abound.many thanks tocirillafor being an amazing beta & friend.
Relationships: Female Lavellan/Solas, Lavellan & Solas
Comments: 11
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> mouse over elvhen for translations / find them in the end notes

> in egypt's sandy silence, all alone,  
>  stands a gigantic leg, which far off throws  
>  the only shadow that the desert knows:—  
>  "i am great ozymandias," saith the stone,  
>  "the king of kings; this mighty city shows  
>  the wonders of my hand."— the city's gone,—  
>  naught but the leg remaining to disclose  
>  the site of this forgotten babylon.  
>  -horace smith, _ozymandius_

It comes as most things do: slowly, and then all at once.

Skin like glass and bones like lead, he is fighting to fall before he turns to amber. The Veil is up and he has won, but all around him children are shrieking and terror shivers in the air like needles on his skin. He is empty and he cannot be the one to guide the People into freedom: he has shown them the door and now it is up to them to sunder the chains that bind.

 _Ar mala lasan na revas_.

A spire shatters in the distance and it sounds like thunder. Drops of blood fall from his nose in rapid succession, and it is all he can do to keep from collapsing into himself.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this, he thinks. A sigh drips out of his lips like honey, and blackness consumes all.

_Not like this._

* * *

He wakes to a world separate from itself. The winter air is a knife to his lungs, each snowflake a quiet kiss. It is an effort to exist, to breathe. Nothing sings the same anymore.

(this world is _sundered_ from its soul)

He stands, sturdy as a newborn fawn. It is slow going, waking. It is frustrating too; he has never felt this powerless - he has never _been_ this powerless. Is this what the world has become? A shade, a sliver of its true worth? He’s alone -

(he’s always been alone)-

(always one half-step removed)-

-why would it be any different in this world?

* * *

It is some time after he’s woken when he steals the common language from the keeper of a clan of shades. He tells himself that he’s breaking their bonds when he reveals the truth of the _vallaslin_ , of Arlathan, of the Dread Wolf. He tells himself that is is a kindness - a false history is no history at all. A lie may be beautiful, but it is still a _lie_.

The bite of knives on his throat and _harellan_ in his ears still chase the wolf in his dreams. He laughs, as the false legends claim, because _of course_ they choose chains and slave markings and beautiful lies.

(they are the last of the Elvhen; never again shall they submit)

He laughs as blood beads and falls down his neck. He laughs as they spit curses at him. As if he hasn’t cursed himself enough - they demand more, always demanding _more_. He laughs, because they do not even know the ~~divine~~ (not divine, never divine) irony of their words.

* * *

In spring, agents of Fen’Harel allow an orb of curious power fall into the hands of the ever-grasping Amladaris. It is only a matter of patience, and oh, he is patient. He’s waited hundreds and thousands of years - what’s a few years to an immortal? A blink of an eye, a gasp, a quiet exaltation. He waits, and watches, and Kirkwall explodes. Mages and templars bare their teeth and rip throats. And if, on occasion, the mages find their battles buoyed by an unknown hedge mage, then perhaps it is providence: rarely has a wolf suffered a slaver to live.

Then -

another explosion.

  
What’s a few hundred more lives staining his red, red hands?

It is gone.

(it cannot be gone)

But it is - disappeared into the ether with that sniveling magister. In their place remains a woman, _his_ mark upon her palm.

a thief a thief a petty, dirty _thief_

She is nothing, a shade of what once was, and she has claimed his power and made it her own. He will kill her, one day. He will kill her, and restore Elvhenan. He will kill her, and restore Mythal. He will kill her, and he will kill the Evanuris. He will kill her, and right his wrongs.

He cannot (will not?) name the feeling that curls in his stomach, settling into a pit. It is simply concern for his power: should she die without the orb, it will evaporate and become one more thing that he has lost. As if he could ever worry about a quickling shade marked for Mythal. She isn’t _real_ ; none of them are. They are little more than mice, abominations that should never have existed.

Oh, the folly of pride.

His fingers brush back silver curls from her cheeks, and he snatches his hand back. (It is mere curiosity, it can only ever _be_ curiosity) She will not survive him, he is certain. No quickling, elvhen or not, could survive a mark meant for the brightest of the People. It is a miracle she still breathes. It will be another miracle yet, if she wakes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> many thanks to larithia for beta'ing this chapter in addition to cirilla!

He cannot remember the last battle he fought in. War, he remembers.

  
(It was a frigid war; one fought in reception halls and masquerade balls)

  
It is a dance - spinning and slinging spells. The air is sharp with blood and cold and he’s never felt so _alive_. Adrenaline buzzes in his veins and it’s a rush so heady, the world spins - just a little bit.

(weak)

He has also never felt so _mortal_. Digging deep just to scrape any vestiges of mana left behind. Someone (the dwarf?) presses a crystalline potion into his hand and he nods in gratitude. A memory, fleeting: when magic was _everywhere_ \- in the air he breathed, in the wine he drank, in the words he spoke. And now- he is a fragment of himself and he is _empty_.

Oh, how the mighty fall. 

Dread Wolf, brought low by a few spells.

Dread Wolf, swaying and struggling to stay upright.

Dread Wolf, too weak to unlock his own fucking orb.

  
  
(Andruil laughs in the middle distance) 

Step, breathe, cast. Repeat. Lets his body move with the magic, lets the magic move through him - coating his teeth and searing his veins. Inhale, exhale, cast. Bends the fade and pushes himself through. Freeze the shade sneaking up on the dwarf. See her, falling into step. See how she moves with him as easily as breathing.

(don’t forget to breathe)

  
Then-

  
they’re gone.

(Quickly! Before more come through!)

A silent benediction (to _what_ god?) falls from his lips. The thief’s wrist is in his hand and he pulls-

  
\- green beams connect to the tessellation and her face burns with effort and pain.

Perhaps this thief might be useful - could she lead him to his orb? What’s a third miracle, after two have already come and gone? She is the key, then. To Amladaris, to the Breach, to everything.

Everything?

No, not everything. (Don’t be foolish.)

It is providence, perhaps. It is…something, at least. She is something: more than a thief, with eyes that see too much and a mind that forms constellations out of scattered stars. Too, too clever for her own good.

  
(You seem to know a great deal about it all…)

He will stay, then, let her live long enough to right his wrongs and retrieve his orb. His hand burns and he sees his fingers wrapped around her wrist. It scalds his skin and he releases her in in a movement just slightly too fast and her eyes narrow - or is he over-analyzing? What happened to the Dread Wolf’s infamous mask? He is but a _humble apostate dreamer_ ; he cannot, he should not be unsettled and unveiled by a _thief_.

He slides back into his skin, answers her questions and laughs when he should. Lets slip a sly remark here and there. (Was that a serious question?) See, little mouse? I am no predator. Bares his teeth and calls it a smile. See, Seeker? I am no abomination. 

(My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions.)

Another rift, and she disrupts it as though this mark has always been a part of her. A slash of his staff blade shoves a terror back through to the Fade. 

(Was it a friend?)

How many friends has he lost to the folly of pride? Innumerable, the lives that tattoo his soul - and still, he will claim countless more before he can atone. Dread Wolf, do you laugh? Dread Wolf, does the suffering of the shadows of the People bring you joy?

_harellanharellanharellanharellanharellan_

A hand, on his elbow. He flinches - when was the last time anyone reached for you, Dread Wolf? She asks if he is all right, and he was to laugh, to scream: _no! I have not been whole for millennia!_

Instead: Of course. I hope your hand is not causing you pain?

She tilts her head: I will survive.

A laugh, short and sharp: Yes, I suppose you will.

She smiles then, and turns to continue when the Seeker huffs and raises an eyebrow. Come, little thief, do not give her cause to see you as less than you are. Come, little mouse, bare your teeth and follow orders and perhaps you will see the dawn. Be a good little _knife-ear_ and maybe the _shem’len_ will kill you quickly.

The chancellor grates on his stomach and scores his mind with glass-tipped claws. Oh, what he’d give to bend and break this insufferable creature.

(Isn’t the Breach the more pressing issue?)

He nearly comes undone - oh, the mouse can bite.

(Now you’re asking for my opinion?)

(You have the mark, ~~little thief~~.)

She chooses the mountain path, and he studies her anew: she is sharp, for prey. 

The scouts, half-dead with demons and exposure, do not hide their shock when it is revealed that the ~~knife-ear~~ prisoner is responsible for saving their lives. _It was worth the risk_ , she says, _if we could save you_. 

He too is caught unaware by her response. If power corrupts, why is she saving the lives of humans who would not do the same? He leans on his staff, content to simply observe, to be forgotten and fade into the background.

She turns and smiles and catches his eyes.

Did he make a noise?

Madness courses through the temple and he is shaken from his skin. The lyrium sings in dissonant chords and speaks of improbable promises of power and freedom and shattering the Veil. Amladaris’ voice rings out, syncopating with the melody of the lyrium.

So you were there!

I told you - I don’t remember!

Is that fear or frustration filling her voice? No memories means she cannot piece fragments into a mosaic and catch the Dread Wolf’s scent.

Hope is a dangerous thing and it wears the face of a Dalish First.

Hope dies when Pride steps out of the Fade and lights the ozone with naught but a spark.

(Come, little thief - _fight_.)

(You hold the key to our salvation.)

(Hold on, little thief, just a minute more.)

She shatters, spent and bruised and barely breathing from the will she has exhausted on this day. Her heart beats in rapid succession - a hummingbird’s wings must live within. Little mouse, can you create a fourth miracle?

Little mouse - will you wake, or will he have to excise the power you stole?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how about tevinter nights, eh? 8)
> 
> hover over the elvhen for translations, though there's nothing new to the fic in this chapter. they're also in the end notes for mobile readers.
> 
> many thanks to selenelux and larithia13 for beta-ing this chapter!
> 
> sorry it took so long, folks - I was busy writing for a challenge & art/fic trade I did with a friend. look on the tumblr [@0zymandius](https://0zymandius.tumblr.com) to see the painting of elera! also give [of apples round and red](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23067556) a read - it is in the ozy-verse _but_ is au, so never fear. 
> 
> lastly, keep an eye out for the bullavellan piece I'll posting as my half of the trade. angst for everyone!

Three days come and go, and still the little mouse sleeps. He takes it upon himself to watch over her the mark.

(Adan holds his tongue,   
and Solas learns the   
meaning of restraint anew.)

He is only watching to make sure it does not kill her, and even in this he is uncertain. Sleep eludes him, or perhaps he eludes it. He is far more intrigued by the knots holding the mark in place. 

It is his own work, but he does not fully comprehend how it has not killed the little mouse yet.

(Perhaps she is made of sturdier stuff   
than gossamer truths and false history.)

When she wakes, will the little thief have grown steel claws and iron teeth? Will she remain a soft, untethered thing?

(Why does it matter?   
She is a _tool_ , and   
you'd do well to remember   
that, Dread Wolf.)

He thinks of Mythal, of the justice she so deserves. Guilt, tinny and sharp curls in his chest, and he cannot _fathom why_.

It is on the dawn of the fourth day when the mouse-ling wakes. He is not there; exhaustion weighs him down with the weight of the veil itself. He hears the clamoring adulation of the pilgrims outside her cabin.

(He thinks, for a moment, that someone should scatter them.)

(He does not, though.)

(After all, he is only here for the mark.)

***

She comes to find him, later.

(Elera)  
(Our dream)

The clever mouse responds in ten heartbeats repeated several times over. _I want to get to know you_ , she says.

(Why?)

_Because it is no small thing,_  
_staying to help as an elven apostate_ ,   
and she laughs

(like chimes.)

So he tells her memories, both his own and those harvested from the fade, and she listens. Listens as he disparages her culture - a test - listens as he tells a story of his friend, the match maker.

An hour comes and goes and still, she asks question after question. Common ground is not always found, but she never wavers, never curses him for heretical opinions.

He says as much, and she simply smiles.

( _not all Dalish are savage,_ with a smile and a wink)

The tips of his ears burn, his gaze following her as she wanders off.

***

The wolves in the Hinterlands sing the song of despair; they are trapped minds in the amber of a demon's grasp. His very soul aches for the kept creatures, a hollow keen where his heart should be.

( _Ar lasa mala na revas_ )

A whisper as each wolf falls, lips silent when too, the demon falls.

Little mouse utters a prayer, though he cannot hear what. Does she hear the song, he wonders?

(Does she hear the harmony echoing in his soul?)  
(Does it matter, Dread Wolf?)  
(You have a duty, Dread Wolf.)  
_Halam'shivanas,_ Dread Wolf.)

Do not forget the screams of the People. Do not forget the tears shed when freedom was granted. Do not forget searing her mark off of your face.

(white hot burning,   
sulfur and charred skin,   
pain beyond life and   
blessed freedom)

( _Little wolf, what did you do?_ )

(I sundered my chains, Mother.)  
(A wolf does not suffer captivity.)

Golden eyes piercing his heart, the brush of a thumb against the blisters.

Her layered voice:

( _For this, little wolf, you will bear_  
_the mark of your deeds._  
_May it remind you that taking your_  
_freedom does not come without cost._ )

His fingers brush where hers left skin instead of burns, and he feels a scar; it is scarce the size of a junebug, but a scar nonetheless.

He will never not bear the mark of another.

Never will he be truly free.

***

Firelight paints her in molten gold and his fingers itch to hold a paintbrush once more. Strange, that a quickling mouse inspires such a feeling.

(Charcoal on a blank  
page, soft lines and   
hard shadows give way.)

The muted sound of Solas sketching harmonizes with the crackling of the fire. His gaze is fleeting: he dares not linger over the curve of her lips, or the way firelight dances with her curls. He is simply documenting the mouse who stole a wolf’s legacy, after all. It makes a fine story, he thinks, to be told as a prelude to Elvhenan arising from a bed of ashes. She may not survive the year, but her memory will live on. 

Memories are powerful. Memories vibrant with hope and faith - such as hers - more so. 

It is not long before Elera materializes, draped in shadow. In his sketch, he affords her what little kindness he can: instead of the weight of the refugees’ fate, her eyes are alight with mirth. Tension does not drip from her very being like it does tonight.

( _She looks peaceful.)_  
_(I didn’t know you could draw, Chuckles._ )

The world freezes.

  
Or has he?

( _An apostate living outside of society_  
_often finds himself in possession of_  
_free-time and little else to do._ )

( _Yes, I’m sure the humble apostate_  
_hermit had many willing models._ )

( _Just as I am certain, Master Tethras, that you_  
_never fabricated characters? Or am I to_  
_assume Bianca is nothing more than a crossbow?_ )

( _Show her, Chuckles. She’d appreciate it._ )

( _And I’d appreciate some peace and quiet,_  
_but we don’t always get what we want,_  
_do we?_ )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _ar lasa mala na revas_ = I grant you [your] freedom (pluralized)  
>  _halam'shivanas_ = sweet sacrifice of duty. in this context, it's more a reminder to not forget one's duty.

**Author's Note:**

> elvhen courtesy of [project elvhen](https://archiveofourown.org/series/229061)
> 
>  _ar mala lasan na revas_ = I grant you [your] freedom.
> 
> come find me on tumblr [@0zymandius](https://0zymandius.tumblr.com)


End file.
